


Just Say Yes

by loversandantiheroes



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Foot Jobs, Handcuffs, Light Dom/sub, Oral Sex, Smut, bondage!twelve, unscrupulous horny shrub women, whouffaldi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-23
Updated: 2014-11-19
Packaged: 2018-02-22 09:05:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2502215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loversandantiheroes/pseuds/loversandantiheroes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Answer me Doctor, and tell me the truth.  If you say no, I'll stop, I'll take the shackles off, and you can take me home and we can go back to dancing around each other like a couple of stupid, nervous schoolkids."  Clara's grip on the edge of the chair tightened.  "I'm tired of dancing, Doctor.  I want this.  And I think you want it, too, but I need to hear you say it.  Just say yes.  Give me an answer."</p><p>Set immediately after the ending of Mummy on the Orient Express.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Well, here we have it, my first foray into shameless Whouffaldi smut. Inspired both by Twelve's rather persistent habit of ending up in restraints and by a rather naughty gif I found on tumblr of a slightly hot and heavy game of footsie. Chapter one is more or less foreplay, chapter two will be considerably more explicit.

Clara was waiting for him when he woke up. She had hauled up his old wooden rolling chair from the cubby under the console and was idly rolling herself back and forth in it by the tips of her toes. She was still dressed in her flapper costume, all glittering beads and overbright eyes. The little bob wig had been discarded - damn thing had been too itchy to keep on any longer - and she wore her hair pinned back in a disheveled bun.

The Doctor sat slumped in front of her, leaning heavily against the railing on the console room floor. He was something of a mess. His suit was rumpled, tie now little more than a scrap of ribbon draped around his neck, the top three buttons of his shirt undone.

"Morning, sunshine," Clara said a little too brightly, rolling the chair forward as the Doctor blinked away the last vestiges of sleep. There was a peculiar knowing - and somewhat alarming - smile on her lips.

"Clara? What happened?"

"You passed out," she said.

The Doctor leaned forward and tried to bring his hands to his face and discovered he couldn’t. The shackles that bound each wrist to the railing over his head rattled, and he gawked at them.

"Um… okay. Don’t remember these. I take it I missed something?"

Clara pursed her lips and nodded. “Mmm. Might’ve done, yeah. Let’s see: Planet of the Shrubs? Also known as Planet of the Shape-Shifting and Sex-Pollen-Spraying Shrub-Women Who Like to Pull Unsuspecting Time Lords into the Bushes and Snog Them to Death. Any of that ringing any bells?”

The Doctor blinked up at her from under thick lashes and a furrowed brow. His eyes were clear now at least. “Shape-shifting shrub-women?”

"Mmm."

"So the shackles are because -"

"You kept running off for a snog of death. At least until you passed out from an overload of that pollen stuff."

A flicker of recognition. “Ah.”

"Yeaaaah," Clara said, inching the chair forward until she was situated between his splayed feet. "Any of that coming back to you yet?"

The Doctor’s face flared red all the way up to the roots of his hair. He’d promised her a planet made entirely of shrubs, and in that he had delivered. What neither of them had really counted on was that the inhabitants might also be a bit on the shrubby side.

It had been a strange experience. They’d been exploring a bit, wandering around in the thick undergrowth. One minute the Doctor had been by her side, babbling happily about the strange properties of the Planet of the Shrubs, and the next he was just gone. A few minutes spent blundering through the undergrowth and she finally heard him calling out to her. Only he had sounded strange. Breathless.

And then she had found him. With a small, faintly green, and very naked woman coiled around him. There were leaves tangled in her chin-length brown bob, and something that looked like a beaded flapper dress puddled around her ankles… _her_  dress, she had realized with a touch of confusion. Clara’s dress. The dress she’d picked out for their last hurrah, a glittering thing designed to show almost as much skin as it hid. Something meant to entice, to hint and suggest and practically plead for his attention.

The Shrub-Woman had turned her head and grinned at her over the Doctor’s shoulder - not just a Shrub-Woman, she realized, it was a Shrub- _Clara_  - running a pointed tongue across his bottom lip and wriggling her hips against him. He gasped. A fine cloud of yellow dust plumed from her mouth, and the Doctor breathed it in. He wavered as the pollen hit him, momentarily dazed. He made some noise at the back of his throat, something caught between a groan and a growl. “ _Clara_ ,” he whispered harshly, and the thickness of his voice, the need in it, made her shiver.

A kind of jealous indignation had flared up in her then. It should be  _her_  pressed up against him,  _her_  guiding one of his exquisite hands to cup her bare breasts. How often had she thought about those hands? Fine-boned and long-fingered. The sort of hands one imagined were designed to flow effortlessly across a painter’s canvas or the worn ivory keys of a piano. Or her own bare and burning skin.

He had been dazed enough that when she seized his collar and pulled she’d nearly wound up running off with his jacket, leaving the Time Lord himself behind. But then the Shrub-Woman had let out a bizarre, trilling shriek, understanding that the real Clara meant to have away with her prize. The sound had cut through the haze in the Doctor’s brain and he recoiled from her twining grasp. It wasn’t much, but it was enough that this time when Clara pulled, the Doctor had stumbled back.

And then she’d started running, pulling the hapless and heavily doped Doctor in tow. He hadn’t struggled until she got him to the TARDIS, when he seemed to understand she meant for them to leave and leave properly, and then he had tried shaking her off. Blessedly the pollen was working on him quickly, and his energy was sapped enough from the run that she’d managed to push him through the TARDIS doors without much trouble. She’d thought to just take off, pull the right lever and it should take her straight back home, but she’d been hit with a frighteningly clear image of the Doctor careening for the door while they were in flight, trying to rush back to that leafy bint, and tumbling out into empty space.

Then she’d remembered the shackles lying cast off in a box under the console, liberated from the Sheriff of Nottingham’s personal dungeon, and she’d had them in hand before the Doctor ever regained his feet.

 _It should have been me_ , she thought again as she sat before the Doctor. It kept circling her brain, hot and bitter and stinging. A pest that wouldn’t leave her. _It should have been me. It should have been me._

Clara tried to keep her eyes off the not-so-inconsiderable ridge in his trousers, a parting gift from Shrub-Clara. It wasn’t an easy feat. Bloody distracting is what it was. She’d sat watching him as he slept off the drug-like effects of the pollen cloud, telling herself she was just making sure he wasn’t about to have a seizure or god knows what else. Adamant that it had nothing to do with the noises he made as he slept, little moans and sighs, or the occasional twitching of the sleepless member that betrayed the subject matter of his dreams.

Once or twice he spoke her name in his sleep in murmured gasps that had been enough to make her squeeze her thighs together, entirely too conscious of the fact that she had chosen to wear her current costume without the addition of a pair of knickers.

Thoughts she didn’t need crowded her head as she sat over him. The temptation to touch him was beyond overwhelming. She wondered how he would feel in her hand… or sliding into her mouth. How would he taste? And how would it feel at long last to have him buried in her to the hilt, filling her up, his forehead pressed to hers, breathing in what he breathed out as they moved against each other…

The Doctor gave a sudden glance downwards, finally seeming to realize that at least one part of his anatomy had remained completely awake while he had not. He shifted around awkwardly, unable to cover himself with his hands or even cross his legs. He looked from the chair to Clara and quickly looked away, flustered and puzzled at the realization her position was an entirely deliberate one.

"Never thought I’d see the day you were trying to get it on with an oversexed topiary," she said, clearing her throat, praying her face hadn’t turned as red as it felt.

His mouth twisted wryly. “Well it wasn’t my idea! And anyway, I thought they were a myth!” he said, trying very very hard to look at anything but her. “I mean seriously, wood nymphs? Pretty leafy women that lure men off for a fumble in the foliage? It’s - it’s hogwash, pure fantasy!”

Clara scoffed. In her mind she saw the Shrub-Woman’s nude form pressed up against the Doctor. Her eyes were drawn again to the front of his trousers, the material drawn so tight she could probably sketch out an accurate representation of his anatomy, and she felt a rush of sick, feverish heat that made her skin prickle. “Looked pretty real from where I was standing,” she said.

"Yes, well, I’m sorry, I’m not infallible," he shot back. "It’s a big universe out there. Occasionally I’m gonna get things wrong."

"Is that the best you’ve got?" Clara asked hotly. “‘It’s a big universe’? Seriously?"

The Doctor flapped his hands in frustration, shackles rattling. “Right, so you’re cross with me then? Again? Need I remind you that I am the one who was roofied and groped by an oversexed topiary? I’m not the sort to put the moves on a hedgerow. At least not without an astonishing amount of Venusian whiskey.”

She laughed at that. It was shrill to her own ears, but it was enough to dispel the worst of her anger.

The Doctor sagged against the railing, arms dangling limply in the shackles. There was a touch of relief in his face. Neither of them spoke for a moment.

Then, softly: “I thought it was you,” he said. “It looked like you, smelled like you, even felt -” he let the last trail off, the color in his face deepening.

"I know," she whispered.

Their eyes locked. It was a thing she could feel in her chest sometimes, a deep resonating click when their eyes met, when the silence between them grew heavy with the things they wanted to say. Clara felt another rush of heat, but this one was different. This one didn’t twist her gut.

She took a deep, shaking breath. “Is that what you want?”

His eyes were burning. “Clara,” he began.

"Yes or no, Doctor," she said, scooting forward until she was between his knees. "You tell me. Yes or no. Is that what you want? Because I am tired of pretending that it’s not what  _I_  want. That  _you’re_  not what I want.”

The Doctor stared at her, his face caught somewhere between lust and longing and confession. A response hung on his lips, unspoken. He had kept her at a careful distance for so long that she feared he would push her away again even now, if only out of habit.

Clara didn’t wait for his response. Instead she slid one high-heeled foot up the length of his erection.

The Doctor hissed, his eyelids fluttering closed, and swore under his breath. “Clara, please,” he said. A plea and a warning.

"Answer me Doctor, and tell me the truth. If you say no, I’ll stop, I’ll take the shackles off, and you can take me home and we can go back to dancing around each other like a couple of stupid, nervous schoolkids." Clara’s grip on the edge of the chair tightened. "I’m tired of dancing, Doctor.  _I want this_. And I think you want it, too, but I need to hear you say it. Just say yes. Give me an answer.”

She stroked him slowly and deliberately, relishing the look of him. The Doctor chained to a railing, eyes screwed up tight, head thrown back, tiny beads of sweat forming on his forehead, trying desperately to control the impulses that sent his narrow hips bucking up against her. The Big Bad Time Lord under her heel and at her mercy. It was positively delicious.

Clara pressed the sole of her shoe into him. A growl escaped from behind his clenched teeth. “Look at me, Doctor. Look me in the eyes, and you answer me.  _Now_.”

At last his eyes opened, and if they had been burning before it was nothing compared to the look he gave her now. It was like comparing a lit match to a wildfire.

“ _Yes_.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ”Then it’s decision time, Clara,” he said, his voice firm but not unkind. “No more lies, no more games. You owe both of us that much at least.” He shrugged, leaning back against the post expectantly. “The choice is yours. I won’t push you away this time, and I won’t try to convince you to stay, either. But you have to choose.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is, alas, pretty much smutless, but I felt it was something that needed to be addressed between them. For those who are just looking for a quick smutfix, please skip ahead to the third chapter.

Clara wasn’t entirely sure her heart was beating. Everything in her chest seemed to have gone still and silent, only the roaring of blood in her ears seemed to suggest otherwise. The Doctor sat before her on the floor of the console room, trussed up and panting, gazing up at her almost reverently.

_He’d said yes._

Finally, after all this time, he’d said yes. And part of her was so gobsmacked she almost didn’t know how to proceed. They’d been stuck in this holding pattern for so long that the concept of being able to move out of it or past it was a bit too much to grasp.

The Doctor’s hips shuddered upward involuntarily, his hands gripping the railing over his head so tight they were turning a mottled red and white, like blood on snow. Every impulse to touch him she’d ever had seemed to surge through her brain all at once like a tidal wave, and suddenly she was springing forward with enough force to send the chair flying across the control room and clattering down a set of stairs, pouncing like a feral thing, straddling his narrow frame and covering his mouth with hers.

She’d dreamt of kissing him countless times, it would be too grievous a lie to claim otherwise, even with her new sensibilities. In those dreams it had been gentle - cautious even - but there was nothing cautious in the way their lips met now, nothing gentle in the way her hands tangled in his hair, grabbing fistfuls of short silver curls. She had never imagined it like this, with her descending on him as though she were ravenous and he was the only thing that could still the hunger.

He broke away from her, breathless, shaking his head. “What about PE?” he asked, and she felt her stomach give a lurch.

"No," Clara said, shaking her own in return. "Not now, Doctor. We are not going to talk about this now."

She leaned in for him again and he jerked his head back. “What. About. Danny. Pink?” There was still hunger in his eyes, but now there was a measure of control to temper it, and she knew she couldn’t get out of this one.

Her mouth opened, but before she could speak, the Doctor said flatly, “No more lies, Clara. PE might be okay with us still traveling together -  _might be_ , if you’d actually told him.” She closed her mouth, suddenly feeling like a chastised child. “But you and I both know that you didn’t. And you and I both know he wouldn’t be okay with this.”

Clara sagged back, shamefaced. “No. No he doesn’t; and no, he wouldn’t.”

"Then it’s decision time, Clara," he said, his voice firm but not unkind. "No more lies, no more games. You owe both of us that much at least." He shrugged, leaning back against the post expectantly. "The choice is yours. I won’t push you away this time, and I won’t try to convince you to stay, either. But you have to choose."

Clara sighed, rubbing her arms briskly as if she was cold. She thought of Danny, sweet, predictable Danny, whose idea of a perfect night was eating questionable curries and watching reruns of Dad’s Army and Auf Wiedersehen, Pet. She thought of Orson and those haunted eyes that had stared out at her from a face so like Danny’s. “That’s…complicated, Doctor,” she said at last.

He chuckled dryly. “If it wasn’t complicated we wouldn’t be in this mess,” he said. “But take your time. I’m certainly not going anywhere.” He rattled the chains over his head and gave her a tight smile.

 _In for a penny_ , she thought, shuddering under the weight of so many secrets. “Do you remember Orson?” she said at last.

The Doctor frowned, his eyes ticking back and forth. “Was not expecting a quiz just now. Okay, um, time traveling fella stranded at the end of time, yes?”

"Yeah."

"What about him?"

"You said he had something to do with my timeline."

"Right." He was looking at her like she was daft. "Made sense: you plugged into the TARDIS, took us back to your childhood, the TARDIS followed your timeline forward and found Orson. What’s this got to do with anything?"

"He looks like Danny!" she half-shouted, exasperated. "He even had the toy soldier that we gave to Danny when he was a kid, he gave it back to me, said it was a family heirloom or something."

"I thought the boy was called Rupert?"

She threw her head back and let out a cry of frustration. “God you are so _dense_ sometimes! You said yourself you scrambled him! Gave him a dream about bein’ ‘Dan the Soldier Man.’ Y’know, Dan like Danny? The little boy was Danny Pink, my b- _boyfriend,_ " she stuttered over the word, finally choking it out in a half-whisper.

The Doctor blinked slowly, taking it in. “Oh. Okay. Um. Yeah sorry still not getting it.”

“ _I’m his bloody grandmother!_ " Clara shouted, shaking the lapels of his jacket. "I am Orson’s grandmother! He said time travel ran in the family, he looked just like Danny, he looked at me like he _knew_  me! If he’s somethin’ to do with my timeline then he’s my grandson, and that means that Danny and I end up together and I have been trying, I have been  _trying so hard,_  Doctor, to stay with him because I thought if this is the man that I have children with, that I have a family with, then there has to be a reason that I would, because I could never  _ever_  raise a child with a man I didn’t love. And Danny is sweet and he’s kind and he’s funny but the more I’m with him the more I wish I was with you instead because the way I should feel with him is the way I feel with you and it is driving me utterly  _bonkers!_ ”

She fell silent, staring into the Doctor’s bewildered face and waiting for a response.

When the response finally came, it was not quite what she had expected. He burst out laughing.

Clara’s grip on his jacket tightened. “This is not funny,” she said, her voice dangerously quiet. “There is nothing funny about this, Doctor, will you please stop laughing?!”

"Actually it is a bit," he said. "And you called  _me_  dense.”

"What, what do you mean, what are you talking about?"

"So the boy in the children’s home was little Danny?" he said, grinning at her expectantly, as though the source of his amusement should be obvious.

"Yes! Yes, for the hundredth time, yes!" she hissed.

The smile he gave her managed to be both smug and sympathetic. “I did tell you not to get distracted.” It was her turn to look confused now, all wide brown eyes and half-open mouth. The Doctor chuckled, shaking his head. “The phone call, Clara. While you were interfaced with the telepathic circuits, Danny phoned you. The TARDIS just ran off what you gave it. Childhood. Nightmares. Danny Pink.”

She blinked slowly. Her head was beginning to hurt. “But… Orson….”

"Didn’t exactly fling himself onto your knee and shout ‘Granny, granny, can I have a sweetie?’ did he?" the Doctor said.

"No," she admitted, "but he said time travel ran in the family."

"Not to burst your bubble, but you’re not the only woman in the British Isles to ever do a bit of time traveling. Clara, you’ve seen a bit of a possible future - one that definitely involved Mr. Pink - and you’re trying to build your present around it because you’ve assumed you’re the other piece to that puzzle and that now this thing has to happen. The last thing you want to do is start thinking you know the future and you can or should be filling in the blanks, it’s like trying to solve for  _x_ when you’re not even sure what  _y_  is. Or _if y_  is! Sometimes  _y_  isn’t even  _y_ , sometimes  _y_  is purple, or apricot, or goldfinch, or salad fork. That’s tricky enough work for a Time Lord, for a human it’s liable to drive you bananas.”

She chuckled weakly at that. “Think I might be there already.”

"Look," he leaned forward, eyes locked on hers. "Time is a malleable thing. Usually, to an extent anyway. You would be amazed the things that you can change and the things you can’t. Sometimes the most insignificant thing can be utterly huge, and what seems like the biggest thing in the universe is almost inconsequential to the grand scheme. Time rewrites itself every day with every choice you make, and that doesn’t mean you’ve made a bad choice or a wrong choice. That’s just how time works; how it’s supposed to be, and how it has always been."

Unable to hold his gaze, she dropped her eyes and busied herself smoothing the wrinkles out of his lapels.

"You can’t control everything all the time, Clara," he whispered. "Believe me, I’ve seen what happens to the people that try. I was one of them. It did not go well. Control the things you can. Let time and tide take care of the rest."

"So," she began carefully, "you’re saying I should -"

"No," he cut her off. "I’m not saying you should or should not do anything. I’m saying that you still have the right to make your own choice. I’m saying that making those choices are not always life or death. And I’m saying that if you’re going to make  _this_  choice, then you shouldn’t make it out of obligation. Not to me, not to Danny, not to a future that you only half-know. The future can take care of itself. For once, Clara, stop thinking. Your heart knows what it wants. For good or bad, it knows, and you should listen to it.”

He inhaled shakily, eyes wavering. “If you want to go back, Clara,” he whispered, “if you want to be with Danny, then tell me. I will take you home, and the old man and the blue box will disappear. If that is what you want. If that is what will make you happy. All you need to do is ask.”

She rested her forehead against his. “And what if I choose you, Doctor? What happens then?”

A long beat passed in silence. “As long as I have worn this face, Clara, I have been yours,” he said, and she did not miss the tremor in his voice. “Just say the word. Good or bad, stay or go, I’ll do as you ask.”

Clara took his face in her hands. Those big blue eyes were wide, guarded, already preparing himself for heartbreak.

"You," she whispered, smiling. "You, my Doctor, you."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Doctor drew in a hissing breath. "The shackles, Clara," he said. "You promised."

She kissed him. Again.  _Finally_. And here was a wonder: he was kissing her back, with a ferocity and desperation that matched her own. Strong, even teeth nipped at her lips, and she dragged her tongue across them in response. His whole body was quivering beneath her as he pulled against his restraints.

And then suddenly his lips left hers and nestled into the cup of her ear. “Take them off, Clara, please,” he panted. “The shackles. Take them off. Let me touch you.”

It was almost funny to hear that from him. The man who couldn’t bear a hug, who shied away from even the suggestion of a touch - she’d put a hand on his back once while he was programming coordinates into the TARDIS controls and he’d started so badly that instead of 1950s Paris they’d landed rather roughly near a research base in the Antarctic in 3950. He was evasive when she came near, restrained in his actions, but now, _physically_ restrained, denied that ability to touch, he begged for the privilege.

Slowly she slid her hands down his neck to his shoulders and down along the length of his arms, feeling the taut lines of trembling muscles under his clothes. She pressed a kiss to his earlobe, laced her fingers with his and leaned into him. The only barrier between them was the rough weave of his slacks, and she could feel the still-hard ridge of his cock nestled against her. She rolled her hips, shuddering at the coarseness of the fabric against the bare slickness of her own sex, and the Doctor cried out breathlessly in her ear.

"I don’t think so, Doctor," she whispered, releasing his hands to work instead on the buttons of his waistcoat and shirt. "I think I like you like this."

"Minx," he muttered. "And all that time spent denying control issues."

"Might’ve lied," she said with a shrug, parting cloth and running her hands through the fine dusting of silvering hair on his chest. "And to be honest you seem to be getting yourself cuffed and chained up a lot more than you used to. You got a kink you haven’t told me about?"

"Several." He stretched forward and caught her in another kiss, no more gentle than the last but open and humid, his tongue tracing hers with agonizing slowness.

Clara temporarily forgot how to breathe, digging her nails into his bare shoulders. It was a deliberate move, and a measure of just how much he really did know about what he was doing, no matter how much he had danced around it in the past. Because it almost worked. Her fingers were already searching his pockets for the sonic screwdriver to unlock the shackles when she caught herself.

"Oh no no no," she said, pulling back. "You’re not getting off that easy, Doctor."

"Damn it, Clara," he said thickly

A wicked grin spread across her face, her eyes sparkling. “Good try though. Clever Doctor with his clever tongue.” She raised herself up onto her knees, slipping the straps of her dress off her shoulders and pushing it down to her waist. The Doctor responded immediately, trailing his lips feather-light against her cool skin, finding the drawn, hard bud of her nipple and slipping it into his mouth. There was no amateurish flicking of his tongue, just the warm, pliant yielding of his mouth and the occasional nip of those even teeth.

Clara cooed appreciatively, cupping the back of his head and raking her fingers through his hair. This was a weakness of hers, always had been, and the Doctor was keen enough to earn his release that he seemed to hone in on the slightest hint of her approval, drawing gentle sighs out into deeper, throatier moans as he gave her left breast a final, playful nip before turning to give its match the same attention.

It was good,  _he_  was good, good enough to make her head spin, but she had plans for that clever tongue beyond a little light foreplay. She pulled away, her breast leaving his mouth with a gentle pop, and before he had a chance to protest she was on her feet and shimmying out of her fancy beaded dress, standing before him in nothing more than suspender belts, stockings, and her high heels.

"Oh my Clara," he growled, and that was the only encouragement she needed.

Steadying herself against the railing, Clara slipped one leg over the Doctor’s shoulder. “You want to touch me, Doctor?” she said, lacing her fingers with his around the cold metal rail. “Go ahead. Put that clever tongue of yours to use. And if you are a very very good boy, I’ll let you go.”

He smirked at her, actually  _smirked_ , flashing pretty white teeth and purring “Yes ma’am,” before dipping his head obediently, skimming his teeth along her inner thigh. His eyes sparked up at her, electric blue under long lashes, and the feeling of his breath against her slickened cunt alone was almost enough to make her come undone.

It was nearly unbearable when that clever, clever tongue parted her folds, and the pleasant thrum that had been building in her body suddenly surged like a live wire. She bucked against him fiercely, stuttering out half-words and vague curses as she ground against his mouth.

"Good boy," she gasped, barely able to get the words out. "Oh s-s-sweet  _Jesus_ , you clever, clever boy.”

He kept a languid pace, tongue lapping at her slowly, and slowing even further when she tried to urge him to go faster. “Teasing bastard,” she hissed through gritted teeth.

His eyes flicked up to her, laughing and smug, daring her to beg for it. It was infuriating: he was the one bound up, she should be the on in control, not him. Yet he still teased, and deftly at that. She never thought to pull away. Before she knew it  _please_  was on her lips in a shaking voice,  _please Doctor please_ , begging him to give her the release she craved.

A warm tremor coursed through her as he chuckled into her flesh. His hands gripped hers even tighter and his lips sealed around the stiff little nub at the top of her cleft, sucking, and suddenly she couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe, her orgasm hitting her in rolling waves like an earthquake. She gulped air, found her voice, cried out. Her whole body shuddered violently, her legs trembling and threatening to give out on her, and if it hadn’t been for the Doctor’s hands clasping her own around the metal railing, she would’ve pitched over.

Wobbling and winded, she pulled back, slipping her leg off his shoulder and sinking down to his lap again. Her ears were ringing. There was still a glint in his eyes, but it had softened now. He pressed his lips to hers, and she tasted herself on his tongue.

"Do I pass, Teach?" he asked.

"You. Magnificent. Bastard," she said, punctuating each word with another kiss. "Top of the class."

Clara snaked a hand between them, sliding her palm down the rise of his erection. “My turn,” she whispered into his mouth.

The Doctor drew in a hissing breath. “The shackles, Clara,” he said. “You promised.”

She squeezed him hard, flicking her tongue across his teeth as he gasped, open-mouthed. “And you didn’t play fair. So now, Doctor, you’re gonna have to say the magic word. And you’re gonna have to mean it.”

"Please, Clara," he breathed.

There was a jingling as she undid his belt buckle and set to work at his fly. “You’re going to have to do better than that,” she said, grinning.

Desperate, he leaned in to kiss her, distract her,  _convince_  her, but she evaded him, pushing him back against the railing. “ _No_ ,” she said, putting every ounce of authority she possessed into the word.

Amazingly - obediently - the Doctor sagged back and closed his mouth.

"You made me beg, Doctor," she continued, watching his eyes get wider as she slid her hands inside the waistband of his boxers. "I’ve got you in shackles and you made  _me_  beg you to make me come. So now it’s my turn. If you want to touch me, you’re going to have to beg for it.”

The sound he made when her hand grasped his bare flesh was indescribable. His eyelids fluttered, but did not close. His eyes were too fixed on her to close. The feel of him in her hand was exquisite, soft and hard and feverishly hot. She moved with the same deliberate slowness he had shown her, working both hands over the length of his cock, squeezing and stroking and tugging. The darkness in his eyes deepened, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His bottom lip was clamped in his teeth in a vain attempt to silence the guttural, choking moans caught in the back of his throat. Those narrow hips rose, thrusting himself into her hands. The soles of his boots squeaked across the floor.

Clara remembered the taste of herself in his mouth, a salt tang like seawater, and she pushed herself back, flattening her body against the cold floor. There was no translating the string of curses that escaped him when she slipped him inside her mouth, all that was comprehensible was her name, over and over. Every plea he could think of followed as she sucked him. Supplication. Mercy. He was begging, and that was good, but not good enough. Not yet.

She lowered her head farther, felt something give at the back of her throat and pushed past it. Tears stood out at the corners of her eyes, but there was something here, something achingly sweet in the sensation that made her hold him there, feeling the tremors that went through his body, feeling the spreading wetness across her inner thighs as a sharp cry finally found its way out of his mouth.

“ _Please, Clara_ ,” he hissed again through gritted teeth. “ _Please love, I need you_.”

Something in her chest gave an expanding lurch and Clara let him slip from her mouth. “Say it again.”

He wasn’t gloating now. There was nothing in his face but naked adoration. “Please. I need you, love,” he said, slower and stronger than before.

Her eyes stung. She drew up against him, cupping his face. “Again,” she said, and this time her voice broke.

"I need you, love."

There were tears on her cheeks when she kissed him, her hand snaking into his jacket pocket for the sonic screwdriver. The shackles rattled loose and his hands dropped free. She helped him with his clothes, and when he was as bare as she was she guided him into her. Biting her lip, she stilled herself, wrapped around him unmoving, holding him in place. Her name still tripped off his tongue and she tasted it.

It was painful at first, he was bigger than she had expected, but the little by little the pain ebbed away, leaving only that delirious, heady sweetness. She flexed her muscles around him as they loosened, and he gasped harshly, drawing the breath from her mouth.

“ _I love you_ ,” tumbled out of her with it.

He smiled, nudging upward against her, and it was her turn to gasp, inhaling the words he exhaled: “ _I love you_.”

She moved against him and that was an end to words between them. They rocked against each other, settling into a rhythm, his fingers pressing into her hips, his lips in the hollow of her throat. His hands mapped out the curves and angles of her body in a deliberate course, tracing up her back to her her neck, making her shiver, pulling the pins out of her hair and working it loose, plunging his hands into it as it spilled out over her shoulders. Sighing, she wound her fingers in his hair, too, tugging at it until he groaned.

The lights on the wall cycled up in bright flashes. Slow a first, then faster, brighter, their colors more intense, and she understood they were causing it. The Doctor could’ve explained it - psychic feedback, maybe, or the TARDIS piggybacking on their energy - but Clara didn’t want to speculate. Whatever the reason, it was beautiful and somehow welcoming, as if the old girl was giving them her approval. The lights caught his eyes prettily, half-lidded in his pleasure, pupils dilated, irises a thin sliver of pale blue. Clara tightened around him, watching his eyes glaze. All at once she felt the dynamic shift, felt her control, of him and of herself, slipping away, shifting to him, and she gave it gladly, letting out a hoarse cry and raking her nails across his shoulders as he wound her hair in his fists and pulled her down harder against him.

He guided her legs around his waist and gathered her up, gentleness forgotten in his urgency, rolling her over onto the haphazard sprawl of his clothing and thrusting up into her hard enough to rattle her teeth and send a jolt of electricity through her entire body. Later there would be gentleness, there would be softness. Later, but not now. In that moment all she wanted was this, his urgency, the rawness of his need, knowing it was as great as hers.

She gripped him tightly, inside and out, digging her heels into the backs of his thighs and pulling him in deeper as his pace quickened, his rhythm becoming more and more staggered and frantic. She wasn’t quite moaning, but a constant tuneless note hummed behind her lips, wavering when he bucked his hips. Every thrust sent another sparking jolt through her body. She felt as though she must be building up an electrical charge. Clara flexed her fingers and half expected to see crackles of electricity arcing between them.

She was close, very close, shaking her head helplessly back and forth, holding in her cries for fear that she might burst if she let them out. And then he pressed his forehead to hers and kissed her fiercely, taking her breath, and she moaned into him. There was a sense of unraveling, something coming apart in her and in him and winding together around them, and the room flashed a brilliant white-gold.

When she came it was like breaking apart, like a wave dashing to spray on a rocky coast. Every part of her seemed to come undone at once, every muscle trembling and convulsing. She clutched at him, nails leaving welts across his back and buttocks. He growled between bared, clenched teeth like a feral thing, not slowing but pounding into her with a sudden relentless force. That last tenuous grasp on control she possessed slipped away, and she screamed out.

He was caught in her like a vise grip, arms and legs locked and shuddering, and he pushed into her a final time as if he could bury himself in her completely. When his spasm came she arched into it, relishing the trembling of his body and the hoarse cry that tore through him as if he too were breaking apart.

Around them the lights dimmed to a dull gold like candlelight, a visual rendering of the pleasant humming that seemed to be coming from their bones.

The Doctor propped himself up to look down at her, brushing strands of hair from her sweat-slick face. He was flushed, silvered hair sticking up at all angles. His eyes stood wide, as if shocked, either at their act or its crescendo. A boyish giggle escaped him, his face crinkling almost bashfully. “Clara,” he whispered, his voice as sweet and thick as honey. “Clara-my-Clara.”

"My Doctor," she answered, smiling.

Rolling onto his side, he pulled her with him to lie side by side on the floor, legs and limbs still entwined.

"Thought you weren’t much for the touching," she said, tracing her fingers down the side of his face.

"It’s complicated," he whispered. "We can talk about it later, if you want, but not now. Please."

Clara frowned. “Is this okay, then? Do you want me to stop?”

He caught her hand and kissed it. “Okay doesn’t begin to cover it. This is beyond okay. And no, I don’t want you to stop.”

"If it’s too much, you’ll tell me, right?"

He smiled. “Yes boss.”

Suddenly she giggled.

The Doctor tried not to look affronted. “What, what’ve I done?”

“ _Handcuffs_ ,” she said, pressing her lips to his neck to stifle her laughter.

"Ah, yes." He blushed a little, then laughed at the absurdity of it.

"So that would be a, um, a  _thing_  of yours then?”

"It would certainly seem to be that way, yes." He cocked an eyebrow at her. "You didn’t seem to mind too much."

She chuckled, shrugging. “Well now what can I say? Restraints look good on you.”

"Oh it’s purely the aesthetic value for you, then?" he said seriously, which just made her laugh harder. "No other factors in it for you at all? Certain dispositions of yours, perhaps?"

"If the words ‘egomaniac needy game player’ come out of your mouth, Doctor, I am going to pinch you very very hard."

"Never crossed my mind!" he said. "Control freak on the other hand, that did occur. In very large flashing letters. I was thinking of getting a sign made, pink neon, thought you might like it for Christmas -  _ow!_ " He jumped as she pinched him hard on the bum. "Cheeky," he said.

"I did warn you," she said.

"At no point did I say ‘egomaniac needy game player’," he insisted.

"Shut up."

The Doctor sighed dramatically, nuzzling against the side of her neck. “So bossy,” he muttered against her ear.

Clara smiled, pulling him close and placing a kiss on his temple. “You love it.”


End file.
